Unhinged
by jolinars
Summary: The five (and only) times Sam let's herself become domestic. Sam focus, plus Sam/Team and established Sam/Jack in later chapters.


It's ironic how she finds it all absurd, but she doesn't want to bring herself to openly voice that opinion. At this moment she is not sure that anyone would believe her anyway. There was no going back now. Sam is leaning over the table of controls and computers in the Operations room, with an old, wet, dirty cloth in her hand that she is using to clean the large window that separates her and the others from the Gate room. A half-empty bottle of window cleaning fluid sits in some open space beneath her.

They're not exactly sure how she acquired the particular items needed for the task, being that it was a late night; the majority of the SGC personnel were off base, leaving a small number of regulars and a skeleton crew to roam the facility. Captain Carter had strode into the base room; no one saw, or even heard her for several minutes until she announced in an irascible tone that "It's dirty." and walked out of the room before anyone could respond.

When she came back with the cleaning items, she asked Walter to step aside and offered no explanation for why. He resisted at first, but she pulled rank and pushed past him. That's when Colonel O'Neill was called. He came in a few minutes later with Daniel and Teal'c following behind him.

"Carter… What are you doing?"

"Cleaning, Sir."

"I see that."

"Then why did you ask, Sir?"

Her words hung in the air, but she wasn't with them; all she saw was the window, intent on getting it clean. Everyone went quiet. The silence was deafening. Jack raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. He made movement to step forward, but forced himself to stop. He held his tongue. Even with his concern he was smart enough to know she didn't really mean it. He was okay with letting it slide.

"Don't we have a janitorial staff for that? Actually I don't know if we do," He looked over to Daniel. "Do we?"

Daniel looked unsure and shrugged his shoulders. Sam spoke up again, saving him. "I heard the General pawns cleaning jobs off on those with very low rank, the young ones. Those eager Airmen looking for any kind of advancement to put on their resume, even if it is less than desirable jobs."

Sam had to resist laughing, to resist any kind of untoward action against her statement. It was the harsh underside of the Military, an unspoken truth that got put on the back burner behind the nobility, behind the honor, behind the desire of serving your country. She resisted laughing again. She put more pressure on the cloth, speeding up her movements, which left her to sigh in frustration when she had to stop to grab the bottle of cleaning fluid; she needed more.

"I highly… Wait, I guess… No. That doesn't explain," Jack's eyes glazed over in a familiar look. He finally stepped over next to her and with pointed fingers he waved his hands in front of the window, but she didn't look at him. "This. Why are you doing this?"

"It's dirty." She stated nonchalantly.

He gave a half smile, trying to find some amusement in the situation. "Then get those, as you said, eager Airmen to do the job."

"They wouldn't know clean if it hit them in the face." Her tone was sharp; now she was pushing. Now she was aware. It felt good. Maybe this would be worth it.

"Just look at this place," She continued. "There is dirt everywhere. They're not doing a very good job."

"This is a Military base, getting dirty is what we do best, Carter. You know that."

"That can't always be the answer, Sir." It was the scientist in her speaking now.

"Okay, Carter that's-"

She cut him off again, "You're right, Sir. Things here get dirty. They get dirty, they have to be cleaned."

"Double points for stating the obvious." Jack countered. This conversation was getting nowhere. "Being clean is not necessarily always the answer either."

"I think it was already clean." Daniel joined in. "Sam… Are you okay?"

There it was; the inherent question. It was enough to make her stop. It was a question she hadn't been able to answer for days. In the wake of being blended with the Tok'ra symbiote known as Jolinar, only for the snake to sacrifice itself to let her live, it was to easy to say it had been a rough couple of days.

In the days that followed, Sam retreated from herself, unsure of how to deal with the situation. It was the first time, in a long time, she truly felt out of control. She hadn't talked. She was completely silent to a point that it rivaled Teal'c's stoicism. All the while she had lingered in a very deep state of melancholy. Those closest to her made countless, failed attempts to rouse her. After which Dr. Frasier had surmised that she was dealing with a mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder, that her silence could be her way of coping, but had high hopes that it would be temporary.

Sam hated it. There was no better or easier way to put it. The anger she already felt towards the Goa'uld elevated. The most unexpected enemy had made her a victim. With recent events in the fight against the Goa'uld, maybe it made her ignorant, but it was the last thing she thought would ever happen. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. When she first joined up with the Military, she had feared that if she were to ever go _down_, it would be from a gun – a bullet, or a bomb; the usual suspects. The things she had grown to expect when putting her life on the line. It came with the job.

After a few days of being held up in the infirmary, Janet finally gave her the okay for release, with a suggestion of taking a few days off – from the base. Sam had acquiesced to the request, but was back twenty-four hours later on the dot. She was quick to be back in her lab, working on alien tech. If anyone suspected she was hiding, they kept quiet about it. Again, those closest to her; meaning her team (and sometimes the General) had stopped by to check in on her. She answered all their questions the same and kept conversation short, alluding to being busy. None of them made any direct assumptions. She seemed to be getting back on track. That was good enough for them. They would take it.

Then it had happened, the brief but lingering flashes of memories that were not her own. Memories that stirred her imagination beyond what she had already seen in her career. It confused her. It scared her. It fascinated her, and that scared her even more. She couldn't get a grip on her own memories or her feelings. It was a slow descent.

That's why she was here now; cleaning, taking back control in the only way she knew how. If she couldn't clean herself, she'd make anything that was an easy target immaculate.

She cleaned the window til the bottle was empty of fluid.


End file.
